Jumbo Jet
by Isityou
Summary: After Moriarty discovers the Coventry conundrum, Mycroft is really stressed and Greg tries to help him out. Warning: Fluff ahead.


Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mister Holmes, Dear me.

His shoulders slumped as he rested his head in his hands. The tension malleable in the air, the half empty decanter of scotch resting forlornly on the smooth wood of the side cabinet, mocking him in his failure. _How could this have happened? How could he have failed all those people, ruined his country? Damn that woman, Damn her to the farthest reaches of hell. _And there he sat, internally cursing his very existence and slowly allowing his body to express his sorrow.

The hours passed. The sun began its torturously slow journey below the horizon, and still he sat, mourning the lives his dreadful mistake had cost him. The door creaked open a little.

"Mister Holmes?" came the query from behind the door.

"Enter" Mycroft replied, hurriedly replacing the mask of assurance that always concealed his true emotions. He was a Holmes after all. "Ahh, Detective Inspector, How can I be of assistance to you this fine evening?" he inquired as Greg cautiously entered the elaborate room.

"Well sir," He mumbled, "I had every intention of asking you a favour, but know it seems as if I should be doing one for you."

"I beg your pardon." Mycroft stammered.

"You seem far too tense to be healthy." Greg responded, moving closer. He walked up behind Mycroft's chair, continuing quietly, "I do believe I know the solution to that."

"I don't believe I understand your meaning." He argued, just as the detective's hands came to rest on his shoulders. They slowly began to massage the knots from the government's shoulders.

"It must be difficult to be in charge of so much." The silver-haired man whispered, "Why don't you tell me about it?" And for some reason the words began to flow from Mycroft's lips, detailing the entire Adler story, the Coventry conundrum and Sherlock's involvement. But not long after the tale was finished the hands left his neck, and a moan slipped from the man at the loss of contact. Greg smiled.

"What was that Mister Holmes?"

"Please, call me Mycroft. And have a seat, Gregory." He instructed, completely ignoring the verbal slip up and gesturing at the leather upholstered chair beside him.

"Mycroft," he laughed, as he slid into the seat supplied for him. "Your parents must really have hated you and your brother."

"So it would seem." Mycroft whispered, noticing for the first time, the chocolate-brown eyes so intently focused on him and beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. "So what brought you here tonight?" He asked, trying to divert the detective's attention. Greg's face turned beet-red.

"It was umm… Actually it was you're uhh brother's suggestion."

"Oh…" Mycroft prodded.

"Not too long ago, he insinuated something about my wife, and he uh he said if I didn't believe him I could ask you and that you could uh prove it. Then he sort of slipped me your address and kicked me out of the flat." He finished hurriedly.

"She's cheating on you." Mycroft replied without emotion, "has been for almost a month." But then he caught a glimpse of the detective's eyes, those beautiful eyes swimming with sadness and just the tiniest bit of relief.

"How can you tell?"

"I would have thought it was obvious."

"You sound exactly like Sherlock you know."

"I should hope I didn't."

"There are slight differences though," Greg admitted, to Mycroft's pleasure, "I don't want to punch you in the face."

"Even after what I told you I did?" The auburn- haired man asked, a trace of apprehension mingling with his embarrassment and confusion.

"I don't seem to remember a personal story, I heard a great deal about a naked woman and your brother." Greg replied with a smirk. "Now I suggest you get a drink, order in some take-away, and go to bed early. I will be verifying with your PA tomorrow." Mycroft just stared at him. "Alright I'll get the drink for you." Greg sidled over to the cabinet and pulled out the scotch, pouring a liberal amount into two tumblers. He made his way back to the table, slipping the drink into Mycroft's hands and quickly pressing his lips to his temple. Mycroft started and turned towards him, Greg could feel his face heating up and he stammered an apology.

"Oh god, Mycroft I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, Its, I was, the wife she liked to drink and it-"

"Don't worry about it Gregory, I understand," He interjected. "It's not like you punched me, it was a simple compassionate gesture."

"Yeah, I'm sorry though, I feel a little stupid." Greg continued to ramble as he slid back into his chair, sipping his drink. They fell into a slightly awkward silence. Every attempt to start a conversation fizzled out in less than ten words, until each man was left with his own increasingly negative musings.

Greg stood up as he threw back the rest of the expensive drink, moving to the door putting the glass back on his way by. When his fingers brushed the handle he looked over his shoulder

"Good night Mycroft, I meant what I said, take-away, crap telly then bed." He stepped out ornate room and into the hall. Just as he was nearing the stairs his phone buzzed.

_Have you had dinner yet, I just ordered Thai, and Madam Marple comes on in twenty. –MH_

_I'd love to -GH_


End file.
